


let the Darkness in

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Non-Canonical Resurrection, Psychological Trauma, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurel is on her downward spiral, and if she just does this one thing for the man who appears from the shadows, it can all stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let the Darkness in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [htbthomas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/gifts).



Laurel had always looked down on her father for falling into a bottle after Sara. It wasn't something she'd ever admit to, or that she even noticed until she got to yet another nameless bar to pull him home and found herself thinking that it would only hurt more if she did. It was just one more thing, but her expectations of family were tempered by it. Her sister was dead, her mother was gone and she couldn't always rely on her dad, and she was the only one left.

 

She gets it now, wishes she didn't have to and wishes she didn't regret it, but she gets it; sometimes being around him is too much, even. It builds up inside her, how she hates him for breaking down, how he tries to hold her back when he never let her do that for him, how the way he looks at her changes, and there's nobody left, not even her. Her life is files and cases, punctuated by the pills and the moments where it still feels like Tommy is there, that she doesn't need to cook when she gets home because Tommy will bring takeout, that nothing happened to complicate things between them.

Sometimes, it's like he brushes her hair back from her face so he can see her eyes when he says _I love you_ and she smiles, before she forgets.

 

~*~

 

He's waiting for her when she comes home, just after she's assigned to try Oliver's mother; he's sitting on her sofa, his hair not quite under control, and she reaches out, only to touch nothing. Instead, he's by the window, looking out over the city, facing the part where there are no streetlights. 

"Ms Lance," he says, as he turns; his face is wider, fuller, and his eyes aren't the same.

"But you're," she says, though she can't finish; for a minute she had hope, the same irrational hope that lurked in the deepest part of her heart had taken over and she had believed, and it had tricked her.

"Death isn't always final," he says. "You should know that by now." 

"Tommy?" she asks, and she hates that her voice is shaking, that it rises and betrays her.

"You can see him again," Malcolm says. He lays the bow down on her kitchen table as he comes to her; he puts his hands on her arms and squeezes, gently, almost as if he had affection for her. "Wounds like his take time, but you will see him again."

"How can I believe you?" she says, because half of her thoughts are _Tommy's alive_ and the other half are _Malcolm Merlyn is in my apartment_ and it's hard to focus; whatever control she thought she has is gone, like it was never there.

"I'm a man of my word," he says, and then he smiles. His eyes are hard, blank, and it feels like there is no air when he looks at her that way. "But you have to do something for me."

She pulls away, but he follows; he takes her arm again and pulls. He's much stronger than she expected, and she looks at the bow instead of him. "You won't be hurting anyone," he says, and he's gentle now. He's talking to her like she's a victim, like she needs to be treated with care, because she's fragile. "It's just information," he says, "I want to know everything about Moira's case, as it happens, and when Tommy's better, I'll tell you where to find him. It's a simple exchange, Ms Lance, and nobody will know."

 

She agrees so that he will leave her alone; when he's gone she sits on the floor, still with her heels on, and she presses her fingers into her forehead. The pressure doesn't go away, nor do the thoughts that make it feel like her mind will explode and send her soul shattering across the room into pieces she can never find again. 

The pills make it stop.

The alcohol makes it stop for longer.

She hears nothing, even when the trial is over, and she stops hoping, because that road is one she knows.

 

~*~

 

That time is like a dream, one she tries to forget, even when it's time for honesty about everything else. It's a stain on her past, like a bruise that has yellowed but is still painful to the touch, one that she covers with makeup and dates that never go anywhere.

"It's not fair," she says to her reflection, "that everyone else comes back and he doesn't." It doesn't reply; there aren't any platitudes or prayers that can make it go away, that can bring him back, and nobody has to thank her for stating the obvious. She can't even blame herself, that's the worst part, because so many people said it wasn't her fault that now even the thought paralyses her and she can't afford that, not now that she's treading water and there's finally, maybe, her own island on the horizon, even beyond that sad tendency to lose everything that's in her blood and that she can never escape from. Sometimes, when it's dark, in that time where she used to swear she could feel him there, she remembers, and wonders, maybe, if it's because he's alive. It's an irrational thought, she knows, and one she's being trained to question and put aside, but it hasn't quite let go of her yet.

 

The envelope comes to the office, mixed into her inbox where even her assistant would never look twice. She hides it in her handbag, finds herself buying a bottle of Scotch on the way back to her apartment and it's like she doesn't know herself, as if she's watching from inside her own head. It's not from Malcolm, exactly; the writing is unfamiliar and it's not even postmarked, but that's how she knows.

The Scotch is unopened on the coffee table, a reminder of her own trial, her own darkness, and she doesn't look at it, because it would be easy to open, easy to pour, and this is something that needs her attention. It's just a name and a photo - two scraps of paper that show Tommy alive and far away, although he looks like hell and he's wearing the same black that his father was. She turns it over, and for a moment forgets how to breathe. It takes a few seconds to get air into her lungs and by that time the writing is blurred from her tears.

_There's always a place for you with me._  
 _Tommy_

 

She tells herself she'll start packing as soon as she can move again, and then it's as soon as she can stop shaking, and then it's done and she's sitting on a bus and Starling City is behind her.


End file.
